


Two Houses, Both Alike in Dignity

by blue_fjords



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Kidnapping, M/M, Teen Wolf Reverse Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:20:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_fjords/pseuds/blue_fjords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eighteen years ago, a storm and an accident led to a mix-up at the hospital, leaving the Argents with a son and the Stilinskis with a daughter.  Now, however, the truth will come out, from a most unlikely source.</p><p>Told in Alternating POV's by Allison Stilinski and Stiles Argent, based on <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1147981">artwork</a> by elica.  Please drop by and shower her with love!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Houses, Both Alike in Dignity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elica/gifts).



> Thanks to elica, for her very inspiring artwork. I was so excited to write this! And thanks to sullymygoodname for beta and suggestions and support. Four for you, Glen Coco.
> 
> A couple of notes: the Jennifer in here is Peter's nurse Jennifer. I am totally blaming Jeff Davis for giving two characters the same name. I apologize for any confusion regardless. But this is Peter's Jennifer, not Jennifer Blake. Second, please be warned that there is a fair amount of violence. The high rating is indicative of a lot of violence, though there's also a bit of sex b/c why make you suffer through a bloody tale w/out any sexy tiems? And third, this is a switched-at-birth story. Therefore, there are a lot of differences from our canon tale. Scott is still a werewolf and still a "True Alpha," Lydia is still a banshee, Claudia and Victoria still died. Most everything else is muddled up, though. I have also set this in senior year, and Allison and Stiles are both eighteen.

When she was little, Allison used to ask her mom to tell her about the day she was born at least once a week. It was her favorite story, and Claudia always added another detail: the dark and stormy night grew into gale-force winds; Claudia passing out from loss of blood became a near-death experience, complete with a singing angel who looked suspiciously like Frankie Avalon; the three-car pile-up that detained then-Deputy Stilinski until after Allison was a bawling newborn became a massive wreck, with carnage and mayhem stretching for miles ("Your father had to ride to the hospital on a horse, Al. But the only horse around was a brood mare named Connie, and she was horribly slow, or else he would've delivered you himself.").

About three dozen repetitions into the story, Claudia threw in the tale of the other couple – the ones from the middle car in the pile-up – and how their baby came weeks early, eager to show everyone that a silly car accident might throw his parents for a loop but it wasn't going to hold him back. Allison made up her own stories about this little boy, telling her mother that today, he was exploring China and yesterday, he'd grown wings.

Once she started school, Allison got too busy learning all the things to keep returning to a story she'd heard a hundred times. She made real friends and hardly thought of the little boy at all. 

After her mother died, it was too painful to think of the stories they'd told each other. Allison buried them deep, until they were all but forgotten.

***

For the past eight years, Allison Stilinski and Scott McCall had been best friends. They weathered every storm together: the death of Allison's mother, grade school bullies, middle school unpopularity, the divorce of Scott's parents, massive amounts of unresolved sexual tension, and the strangest one of all – Scott turning into a werewolf.

They managed to keep that last one a secret from their parents, but things got exponentially harder when the Argents moved to Beacon Hills. The Argents consisted of one father and a son, the improbably named Stiles Argent, and suddenly, Allison had competition for the title of Best Friend to Scott McCall.

"Sometimes guys need other guys to do stupid shit with," Lydia said, shrugging off Allison's concerns and focusing once again on her smoothie. "Gives us more time to do our thing."

Their 'thing' fluctuated from Lydia's attempts to get Allison to give up her tomboy chic clothes to studying for AP Calculus (Lydia) or Spanish IV (Allison). Now that Allison was genuine friends with Lydia, instead of the hazy frenemy thing they'd been doing up until their English teacher turned out to be an evil Druid and they'd found out Lydia was a banshee, she was discovering all the ins and outs of being one part of a trio. She wasn't sure she could handle a fourth so soon.

"They're in detention again today," Allison mumbled. They were probably bonding. Stiles seemed to have an endless source of truly biting sarcasm, coupled with equally groan-inducing puns, and the combo left Scott in stitches.

"See?" Lydia gestured grandly at the shopping center. "Look at what they're missing!"

Allison cut her eyes at Lydia. Was she being sarcastic? The only good thing about this shopping center was the smoothie place, and they'd just left it.

"Case in point," Lydia breathed out, reaching for Allison's wrist and giving it a squeeze. "Major hottie alert. Who the hell is that?"

Allison followed Lydia's line of sight and frowned. 'That' was Trouble, with a capital T, right here in River City.

"Derek Hale," Allison whispered. Derek Hale slammed the door of his Camaro and headed towards Rosa's Taqueria. The last time Allison had seen him, nearly two years ago, he was in the backseat of her father's squad car. Dad never told her why they let him go – lack of non-supernatural evidence, she supposed. Six years before that, almost the entire rest of Derek's family had burned to death. "I know you were out of it the last time he was in town, but you remember him, right?"

" _That's_ Derek Hale?" Lydia whispered back. "Damn, he grew up in all the right places."

Perhaps it was her imagination, but Allison could swear that Derek's shoulders stiffened, though he was much too far away to hear them. Then he turned his head and locked eyes with her. Allison felt her mouth go dry.

"Come on, Lydia," she said, dragging the other girl back to her Jeep.

The door to the taqueria shut behind Derek Hale. Allison still didn't breathe easier until they were a mile down the road and Lydia's grumbling over getting hauled around like a sack of potatoes tapered off.

"He's an Alpha werewolf, Lydia," Allison said. "And we already have an Alpha in Beacon Hills." Lydia's eyes widened as she easily connected the dots.

"Dinner at my place." It wasn't a question, but Allison would have agreed anyhow. "I'll text Scott."

And then they'd have to figure out what the hell to do.

***

Stiles checked the chamber, wiped down the shaft, and placed the shotgun carefully in the case. And done!

"The crossbow now," Chris said.

Stiles swallowed his sigh. He hated the crossbow. Give him a shotgun and a wolfsbane bullet any day of the week over the damn crossbow. He was finally strong enough to use his dad's bow but that didn't mean he had to like it.

His hands moved by rote. When he was young, his mother had very little patience for the way his mind worked, unwilling to follow him through the twists and turns of his thoughts. Keeping his hands busy, giving him something to focus on with full attention, was her way of getting a little peace and quiet, as she liked to say. Now he could assemble and disassemble any gun or crossbow in his father's armory in record time. Victoria would've been proud of that, had she been alive to see it.

"Good time," Chris said, clicking his stopwatch. "Wash up; dinner's in ten."

"I was thinking I might go to Scott's for dinner," Stiles said. "Part of the Real Boy program, you know?"

Chris shot him a look over his shoulder as he locked up the weapons cabinet.

"Hey, firearm safety is important for Real Boys, too!" Stiles said with a grin. "I consider it father-son bonding time. But right at the top of my Real Boy Checklist is getting a Real Boy friend. Hmm, I might want to consider rephrasing that…"

"If you want to go to Scott's, you can go to Scott's," Chris interrupted him. "And while you're out, keep your eyes open."

"Real Boys aren't paranoid."

"Enough with the Real Boy!" Chris smiled, but it quickly faded. "It's not paranoia, Stiles. Hunters don't typically stop Hunting. You know that." Stiles nodded, his throat tightening. "It was the right decision," Chris said quietly, coming over and pulling Stiles into his personal space with a hand around Stiles' neck. "But not everyone's going to see it like that. I just want you to be alert and safe."

"Uh huh." Stiles nodded and swallowed past the lump in his throat.

"Now go on and have fun." Chris pulled him into an awkward one-armed hug. Stiles knew for a fact that his dad's therapist had encouraged more physical closeness and affirmations of affection. Stiles had to keep an Anger Journal and make lists of goals for his behavior over the next three months, six months, year, and on; Chris had to give out more hugs. It didn't seem quite fair, but Stiles really liked the hugs.

Stiles made it to Scott's house without getting lost once – you can take the boy out of the Hunter lifestyle, but you can't take the Hunter out of the boy – only to find that no one was home.

"There are these things called cell phones, Stiles," Stiles muttered to himself, putting his car in reverse and pulling over partway down Scott's street. "Goals for today: stop referring to yourself in the third person. Also, call your buddy and get invited to dinner."

He glanced idly out the front window as Scott's voicemail picked up. Beacon Hills was pretty generic – it was actually one of the reasons he and Chris had picked it; that, and because around eighteen years ago, Chris and Victoria Argent had been driving home from a gun show and needed to make an unexpected stop in Beacon Hills to deliver their son. Stiles always loved that story, and Beacon Hills became their new home after the awfulness of the past two years. Peaceful, calm Beacon Hills, where an old lady walked a Yorkshire terrier across the street. A plain, silver, four-door sedan turned into a garage farther down the road. The hottest man Stiles had ever seen knocked on his side window.

Stiles didn't roll down the window. The man was Hotter Than Hades, but Stiles wasn't stupid.

"You okay?" Stiles asked loudly.

"I'm looking for Scott McCall," HTH said, and smiled charmingly. Every single warning bell his parents had instilled in Stiles went off at once. That was the creepiest charming smile Stiles had ever seen, and it fit HTH about as well as a dress would fit a bear. _A BEAR! A BEAR! AND THE MAIDEN FAIR!_ Stiles fought down an inappropriate giggle.

"Yeah, Scotty's a tough guy to pin down," Stiles drawled. "Every night's a different port of call. Who can say where he'll end up tonight?"

"That so?" HTH asked. Some dryness was seeping in, which was a real problem as it just made HTH even hotter.

"Tell you what, big guy," Stiles said. "Give me your number, and I'll call you the second I spot our boy."

It was actually one of Stiles' better pick-up lines, if he did say so himself. Not that he was trying to pick up HTH; he was merely looking out for Scott.

"I'll take my chances." The charm was completely gone now. Figured. HTH turned to leave, and Stiles rapped on the window to get his attention.

"What's your name?"

"Derek Hale." He said it like a challenge, and it sure as hell was. Werewolf! All the Hales were werewolves.

 _Take a deep breath and let it out slowly._ His therapist said that all the time. Stiles gave Derek Hale what had to have been a demented grin and floored it. He couldn't breathe there.

***

"We should bring Stiles in on this," Scott said. He had that particularly stubborn set to his jaw, and Allison dug her heels in.

"You've known him for a month, Scott," she pointed out. Reasonably, too. Scott was lucky she was the one hearing about this; Lydia would not have been as kind. "This is too important to risk."

"Stiles wouldn't hurt us!" Scott protested.

"Argent?" Lydia asked, joining them in the immaculately appointed Martin kitchen, which Allison was fairly certain no one ever used. Not that she really had room to talk; neither she nor Dad could do too much in a kitchen. "Scott, you haven't even told your mother. Allison hasn't told her father." She set the delivery bags on the counter with an air of finality. "You're not telling Stiles Argent."

Scott somehow managed to kick his stubborn look up one more notch, but Allison's stomach grumbled loudly, which set off Scott's. Lydia rolled her eyes and took out three plates, loading hers up with pad see ew and another type of noodle dish that Allison couldn't pronounce and was too embarrassed to say out loud.

"Besides," Lydia continued, after they'd all made dents into the mountains of food on their plates, "why would he even have to know? What does Argent have to do with Derek Hale?"

Scott shrugged, mumbling something under his breath. Allison's stomach lurched, the noodles sitting heavy.

"What did you say?" she asked. Scott avoided her eyes. "Did you call him your best friend?"

"Al—"

"Because _I'm_ your best friend," she said. "I've been your best friend since the first day of fourth grade!"

"It's different with him, okay!" Scott burst out. "Besides, you have Lydia—"

"We both have Lydia!"

"As great as it is to be referred to as a possession," Lydia interrupted them coolly, "I really think we need to get back to the reason for this little tete-a-tete."

Allison pushed her plate away and folded her arms. "Derek Hale is back in town," she said tightly.

"That probably has nothing to do with us," Scott said. "Charges dropped, he left. And good riddance."

"Scott, you cannot be that naïve," Lydia said exasperatedly.

"I'm not being naïve!" Scott protested, his eyes flickering to red. "You guys aren't werewolves; you don't get it. When Peter died, Derek became the Alpha, but not my alpha. We don't have a connection like that. There's _no reason_ for him to come looking for me."

"What if he wants to see a True Alpha?" Lydia asked quietly.

"Even if he did," Scott sighed. "He's not here to hurt me. I didn't… I didn't tell you this then, but after the Sheriff let him go, he came to see me."

It was stupid to feel hurt that he hadn't told her that, but that didn't stop Allison from feeling hurt.

"What'd he say?" she asked, her voice hard as iron.

Scott gave her a wounded look, like he had room to talk.

"He said we were brothers now, and I said some stuff about how he was an asshole for driving Peter away before I could get to him—" Allison shifted her feet nervously. Derek had hardly done that alone; she and Scott had each played roles in that fiasco, culminating with Peter's death somewhere far away. The only way they'd known about it was through Derek's new red eyes. "—and he said, fine, I could think what I wanted, which, yeah! I don't need his permission!"

"Suddenly not regretting being unconscious for all this," Lydia muttered. Scott flushed.

"Anyhow, he said he was leaving, and I could let Deaton know if I needed his help. And we haven't!" Scott slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. "We've done it all ourselves!"

"Exactly," Allison agreed. "So there's no reason to get Stiles Argent involved."

***

Stiles pulled over a couple of blocks from Allison Stilinski's house. Scott was probably there, he was always with her (but not dating her, which just seemed weird to Stiles; Allison was _hot_ ), but Stiles needed to get a handle on his rocketing emotions before seeing anyone. A couple of blocks should do it.

His therapist had lots of 'suggestions' for dealing with anxiety. Stiles tended to ignore them, except for the super obvious and usually impossible to do 'remove yourself from the situation.' Well, he was removing himself from Derek Fucking Hale.

Two years ago, Stiles went on his first hunting trip with Grandpa Argent. He'd never really been all that close to Gerard – the man took himself very seriously, for one thing, and always had an incredibly detailed, _meaningful_ story to back up any point (usually to prove Stiles wrong) – but Victoria had been so proud, Stiles couldn't think of anything else. Looking back, Stiles should've paid more attention to his father's reaction, instead.

Stiles and Gerard went to Nevada, and a day into the trip Chris called to say he and Victoria were going to be joining Aunt Kate in Oregon. Nothing to worry about. Stiles and Gerard found coyotes. Chris, Victoria, and Kate found Peter Fucking Hale.

Stiles leaned his head against the steering wheel and took several deep breaths. His thoughts continued to whirl. Derek Hale. He'd be the Alpha of the Hale pack, if the Hale pack even existed anymore. Did he know who Stiles was? Was Derek just toying with him? Did he care at all that the Argents no longer hunted? The Hales had won that war of attrition. And why the hell was Derek looking for Scott?

A black SUV, virtually a twin to his own vehicle, pulled up behind Stiles. His instincts screamed at him to get out of there, but as he shifted into drive, looking in his rearview mirror, a second unknown SUV plowed into his side. Everything went dark.

The first thing Stiles thought when he woke up was "Wow, I'm alive." The second thing was "Those bastards are really going to regret that."

It made him feel a little better.

Chris had been telling him for years that, in moments of extreme distress, his training would kick in. That was why they practiced all the time, after all, why Victoria insisted on running the family like a military unit. Stiles was surprised to find that maybe his parents knew what they were talking about as he ran through his mental assessment. Body – bruised knee, scraped knuckles. He was a little hungry, somewhat chilled, and stretched out on a hard, flat surface. No bindings; good news. Noises – soft hum in the distance, like that of machinery. Breathing, too, but it sounded like just one other person. Taste – the old socks taste of morning breath. He probably hadn't been drugged then. At least orally.

"You ready to admit you're awake?" a voice said, male and almost familiar.

Stiles took his time and made a show of stretching, utterly nonchalant, before he opened his eyes. A cage. He was in a steel cage, surrounded by a ring of mountain ash, in the middle of what looked to be a warehouse. All of the lighting was provided by one bare bulb, hanging from the ceiling, to the left and outside the cage. Stiles was alone, except for…

"Derek Hale," Stiles hissed, scrambling away until his back was pressed against the bars. It was instinct; to get as far from a dangerous predator as possible, but once he was there, he flushed and stood up on wobbly legs. "What the fuck have you done to me?"

"Oh, no, Argent," Derek said, barking a bitter laugh. "This was _your_ side's doing."

He raised his chin, revealing a thick metal collar, looped with the tell-tale purple of wolfsbane.

Stiles swallowed hard. The wolfsbane provided no threat to him. Neither did the mountain ash. He'd just pick the lock on the cage and walk out, and leave Derek to whatever no doubt gruesome fate awaited him. He'd do that right now…

"How did you know my name?" he asked, patting down his pockets and searching for his handy lockpicking kit. His pockets were empty.

"They took all your crap," Derek said. He didn't look quite Hotter Than Hades now, the wolfsbane clearly affecting him. He shifted back and forth on his feet, as if he couldn't decide where the threat was worse – from Stiles or from whoever was outside the cage. "Stiles Argent. They were looking for a Genim Argent."

"I legally changed my name when I turned eighteen. Genim Argent was a Hunter. I'm not that anymore; I'll never be that again." Stiles snapped his mouth shut, pissed at himself for revealing so much. He used talking to deflect, not share his life story. Derek raised his eyebrows.

"They shot you up with something before stuffing you in here with me. I take it you weren't planning to tell me that much truth?"

"Fuck my life," Stiles moaned, sinking back down to the floor. 

Derek stiffened and turned to the right. A moment later, a door opened, letting in a narrow strip of light before closing. Stiles squinted into the darkness. Two sets of footsteps approached the cage from the shadows – the clicking of heels and shuffle of old man slippers.

"Your life was fucked from the moment you were born, young man," Gerard Argent said, appearing in the light cast by the lone light bulb. He leaned heavily on the arm of the red headed woman beside him. She looked Stiles slowly up and down, licking her lips. "And now you're going to answer for it."

***

Allison slowed automatically at the sight of flashing red and blue lights on her way home from Lydia's. Scott had opted to run rather than catch a ride with her. She clenched the wheel tight in her grip as she approached the wreck. Generic black SUV, pretty badly totaled.

She nearly missed spotting the 'Argent #24' bumper sticker.

"Oh my God," she said out loud.

Her dad was walking toward the Jeep, and there were cars behind her. She pulled over almost blindly, Dad reaching the door just as she opened it.

"Stiles," she said. "Dad, that SUV belongs to Stiles—"

"I know, honey," Dad said, his arms coming up to wrap her into a tight hug. He smelled like his woodsy cologne she bought him every birthday because her mom used to, and the stale coffee from the station, and a hint of greasy curly fries, a Stilinski father-daughter favorite. He smelled like home, and not ten minutes ago she'd been hating the kid whose SUV lay in crumpled pieces on the side of the road.

Clearly, she was going to Hell.

"Allison, sweetheart, he's not in the car," Dad said.

It took a moment to sink in.

"Do you mean – it was empty? He wasn't hurt?" she asked, confused.

Dad bit his lip.

"I mean, I want you to drive to Scott's house and stay there. Call me when you're safe inside," he said.

She closed her eyes.

"You mean, someth—someone took him."

"Allison." He held her gently by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. "You know I love you more than anything—"

"Dad—"

"Anything. You're so… independent. Strong. But I need for you to be safe right now. Please."

They'd found something. In the SUV, something unexplainable, like Derek Hale-type unexplainable; nothing else would make Dad act so skittish, the man was a rock. And if Allison had only told her father the truth before now… and nothing. Stiles would still be missing, and Dad would still be wondering who did it, only then, he might have charged off in the right direction and gotten himself killed. She gave him a wavery smile.

"I'll be safe, Dad. I promise. I'll call you the second I'm at Scott's."

Before they went off and tracked down Stiles themselves.

***

"I see the reports of your death have been grossly exaggerated," Stiles said over the loud beating of his heart. He knew Derek could hear it. Hell, Grandpa could probably hear it.

"As were the reports of your birth," Gerard retorted.

Stiles blinked. That was a really weird comeback.

"That's a really weird comeback, old man," Stiles said. "What the hell do you mean?"

Gerard's lips peeled back in a gross imitation of a smile. He looked like a lizard.

"I _mean_ , you are no grandson of mine. Imagine my surprise, when I woke up in that hellhole of a hospital your father left me in, to meet the lovely Nurse Jennifer." He gestured grandly at the woman beside him. "And she said, of course she could help me find my beloved grandson. All it would take was a drop of my blood, since it would be the same as yours, and your name."

"Well, there you go, I changed my name!" Stiles said. "Mystery solved!"

"It is not solved!" Gerard roared. "I should have known no Argent would turn their back on who they were! You're weak, Genim, you always were, and you dragged my son down with you! We deserve better than you. And you're going to tell me where my real grandson is, right now."

"Listen very carefully, Gramps." Stiles leaned forward so his forehead was pressed against the bars. " _I have no idea what you're talking about!_ "

"Of course you do!" Gerard teetered closer, the red-head holding him back just out of range of Stiles' arms. "You came here. Here! Where my grandson is; Jennifer has seen it. You came here to get rid of the one person who stood between you and power!"

"You have gone completely round the bend," Stiles said. And the more Gerard frothed at the mouth, the more trouble for Stiles – but he couldn't keep his mouth shut. "You escaped the loony bin. You've a screw loose. You—"

"You deserve exactly what that beast is going to do to you." Gerard interrupted, his lip curling in a sneer. "And when my son sees your mangled body, I will get him back!"

"You say I'm not related to you?" Stiles yelled as Gerard grabbed the red-head and tried to execute a dramatic exit, hampered by his slow gait. "Good! I didn't get your crazy, you psycho!"

It wasn't one of his better lines, but he was feeling more than a little stressed at the moment. The door clanged shut behind Gerard and Red. Red Witch, apparently, using blood magic to attempt a trace. Which… Stiles slunk slowly to the floor.

Why the hell would a witch just volunteer to help a dying old man? Out of the kindness of her heart? Stiles shuddered. The way she'd licked her lips at him had certainly not been kind.

"You really did give up being a Hunter."

Stiles started. How the hell had he forgotten Derek was still in there?

"That's what I said! I thought werewolves had, like, inner lie detectors or something. Shouldn't you know this?"

"Gee, thanks for telling me, Stiles. I had no idea I could do that!" Derek snapped. "Do you think the continual application of wolfsbane might possibly be throwing me off?"

Stiles scowled. "How'd they capture you, anyhow?"

"Witch. Despite witchcraft being anathema to you Hunters."

"Quit calling me a Hunter, asshole!" Stiles glared at him, and Derek glared right back. He wasn't attacking though. That was something. And he was right about the witches.

"You're right about the damn witches," Stiles said, breaking the stalemate. "I have no fucking clue why she'd ally herself with Gerard. I thought he was dead. The hospital… the hospital said he was dead." Stiles barked a laugh. "They even sent us ashes. I know for a fact that my dad tested them to make sure we got Gerard. Witches, man. My mom would've disowned him for that."

"Let me guess: she's still a Hunter," Derek said.

"She's not anything anymore," Stiles said, picking at his jeans. "She's dead."

"Oh. Stiles—"

"Shut up. You don't get to tell me you're sorry!" Much to his horror, Stiles could feel the words bubbling up inside him. He was going to spill, and nothing could stop that. "She died because of Peter Hale!"

For the first time since waking up to Derek's grumpy face in an unknown prison, Derek looked surprised.

"Peter is dead," he said haltingly.

"I know. I know I didn't get to kill him myself," Stiles said bitterly. "Peter Hale killed my aunt and bit my mom. He turned my mom into one of _you_." Stiles ran a shaky hand through his hair. There was no stopping the flood of words. "I was with Grandpa Psycho when it happened. He went ballistic. So did I," Stiles admitted.

"That's no different than usual for Gerard Argent."

Stiles barked a harsh laugh. "Tell that to the group of werewolves we ran into on the way to my parents. We practically bathed in their blood." Stiles squeezed his eyes shut. "I was so damn angry. I was angry for such a long time. I did so much horrible shit; if you even knew the half of it, you'd kill me." He looked Derek in the eye. "Why haven't you killed me yet?"

"I'm not a killer," Derek said, affronted.

"I've killed dozens of werewolves!" Stiles protested. If he ever got out of this, he was going to… not kill, he'd given that up, but do something really nasty to that witch. "You should really want to kill me."

Derek was focused on a spot on Stiles' neck – it itched a bit, and when Stiles brought his hand up to worry at it, he found where the witch had injected him. Oh. _Oh_.

"You said you stopped being a Hunter," Derek said quietly, and Stiles knew without a doubt that _that_ was the one thing protecting him now.

"My dad used to chain my mom up in the basement," Stiles said. "Her orders. Gerard told her she was an abomination, and it was her duty to end her life. My dad convinced her to fight. Gerard turned his back on us, other Hunters were searching for us, and we were looking for Peter. And then we found out Gerard beat us to it, Peter was dead, and the last of the Hales left his territory. You." Stiles spoke faster now. "My mom was convinced you were going to find her. We moved constantly, I stopped going to school. And then one morning…"

His throat was closing up. He could feel the panic attack setting in. Not only did he have to share all these horrible things with Derek Hale, he was now also going to stop breathing in front of him. Great.

"My mom came into my bedroom. It was at this crappy motel in South Dakota. And she sat at the end of my bed and told me that I had to uphold the Code. That the fucking Hunter's Code meant more than any bond we had as a family," Stiles gasped out. "Then she blew her brains out right in front of me. Wolfsbane bullet to the head."

Tears were streaming down his face, and Derek was seeing everything. He'd told him _everything_.

"Hunting destroyed my family. Of course I'm not a Hunter."

He passed out.

***

"You said there was blood on the seat?" Scott asked. He was still outwardly calm. Even a year ago, he might have been flipping his shit, but that would have been before the Alpha Pack and before Ms. Blake. Before they had Lydia for backup.

Lydia, who'd just called in to say she was getting a strange feeling about tonight and to head to the warehouse district.

"Not enough for him to be—"

"Dead. Right," Scott interrupted her.

Allison peered around the hedge. Scott wanted to see and smell the crash site before they did anything else, which was a bit tricky when the cops were still on the scene. Allison could see her dad. She'd called him already and told him she was safe. He'd sounded so relieved; the guilt was near-crippling.

"What do you smell?" she whispered.

"Stiles. His blood," Scott said reluctantly. "And I think maybe Derek, from what I remember, but it's really, really faint. Allison, I don't think he could have done this. It'd be a lot stronger, and there are all these other smells…"

"Deputy Richards? Carmichael?"

"Not just them! Allison, Stiles was kidnapped!"

"And taken to the warehouse district," Allison concluded. She took a deep breath. "Scott, I'm sorry."

"What? What for? Allison, we can still save him!" Scott said excitedly.

"That's not why. I'm… I haven't been very, um, welcoming to Stiles." She fiddled with the zipper of her jacket.

"You don't like Stiles?" Scott asked, wounded.

"No! That's not it. I mean, I like him fine. I could probably like him a lot."

"Oh," Scott said slowly. "I get it." He squared his shoulders. "Once we get him back, I promise I won't get in your way."

"What?" Now Allison was confused. Why wouldn't Scott just let her finish her apology, dammit? Those things were hard to say.

"I think you guys will be great together," Scott said, trying to smile. He had a terrible fake smile. "My two favorite people; it'll be perfect."

"Scott, I was trying to say that I was jealous you were spending so much time with Stiles," Allison said, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I definitely don't want to date Stiles."

"Really?!" Scott grinned, then frowned. "What's wrong with Stiles?"

"Nothing!" She sighed. "Come on, let's just go rescue him. Lydia will be pissed if she beats us there."

She tried not to let her heart flutter too noticeably when he took her hand as they ran back to the Jeep. It was difficult, trying to hide the fact you were in love with a boy from said boy when he was a werewolf.

***

Stiles awoke to a roar. His muscles twitched and his eyes flew open. His vision was filled with the sight of Derek Hale, crouched over him and half wolfed-out – fangs, eyes, and claws, but no sideburns, no wolf-ized face. The wolfsbane around his neck was cutting into his skin, leaving smears of blood all down his neck. Stiles twisted, desperate to get away, and froze.

There were men outside the cage, hitting the bars with switches cut from mountain ash. Hunters. Stiles recognized Bob Russell, Carl Woodson, and Benny Jones right away – his father's former friends. Chris didn't talk to them anymore. Some men Stiles didn't recognize were jeering at him, taunting him with names like Puppy Chow and the more risqué Knot Taker. Outside the circle, June Bridges, an old friend of his mother's, watched with glittering eyes. Carl reached into his pocket and pulled out a rock. His eyes met Stiles' as he threw.

Derek deflected it easily and roared again. Stiles' heart pounded like a hammer in his chest as all the other hunters, as if Carl had broken their last inhibition, hefted their own rocks and began to pelt him with them. Or they would have, if not for Derek. He collapsed on top of Stiles, shielding him with his slightly broader frame, Derek's hands coming up to tuck Stiles' head down.

Stiles breathed raggedly into Derek's neck. The werewolf had stopped roaring, but he was still alive. Stiles could feel each labored breath.

He had no idea what prompted Derek to go to such lengths to keep him safe. It was likely he was going to pay for his good deed with his life.

"Enough," June commanded.

The barrage of rocks abruptly stopped.

"You used to cry like a damn banshee when you were a baby, Genny," June said. It took Stiles a moment to remember he'd once been called Genny, a lifetime ago. "Drove your mama nuts. She'd be so ashamed of you." Derek's blood soaked through Stiles' shirt. Each time Stiles blinked, his eyelashes brushed against Derek. "Can you imagine what she'd say now? She'd be so glad that you weren't her son."

"Hey, June?" Stiles called out in a shaky voice. "Fuck you."

She laughed, humorlessly. "You have no idea who the real Argent is, do you?"

"I'm the only Argent here," Stiles said. "Gerard is batshit insane. How can you not see that?" Stiles' vision was starting to narrow, his breath coming faster. He could feel another panic attack approaching inexorably, like a freight train. Chris Argent was his father, Victoria Argent was his mother. It wasn't up for debate. Back when… and sometimes, still – Chris could be a sarcastic little shit. Stiles came by it naturally. And though Victoria had always found discussion of Stiles' ADD distasteful, Stiles always thought he got it from her – the way she focused on something with a burning intensity to the exclusion of all else. He had that in common with his mother, and nothing June said could change it.

"As the head of the Argent family, he deserves your respect," June said sharply.

"You just told me I wasn't part of his family!" Stiles protested, his voice coming out in a wheeze. _Breathe, son,_ his father's voice sounded in his head. "And Gerard's not the head Argent. My cousin Renee should be."

It seemed to him like June flushed then. Victoria used to despair of June's leadership qualities, Stiles remembered. June always followed Victoria or Kate's lead, and in the absence of a strong leader, she'd follow a strong soldier – someone like Gerard. Stiles supposed he was lucky that only June would be desperate enough to buck tradition like that. But then, they were working with a witch and had clearly shredded the Code, so what did he expect?

"You don't know anything!" June bit out. "You're just a scared little boy and a piss-poor excuse for a Hunter. Look at you; on your back for a damn werewolf. I hope he breaks you. And when he's done with you, I'm going to skin him alive!"

She turned on her heel, taking her entourage with her. 

Stiles surrendered completely to the wave of panic threatening to pull him under. Sometimes, the only way to get through it was to let it think it was winning and have it drag him through the worst of it. Then he could shake it off on the other side with all the strength he conserved by pretending to give in. He just had to get there first so he could rescue himself.

It was a bad panic attack, not helped by the physical weight of Derek pressing into Stiles' chest. But just at the point when despair seemed to completely clog Stiles' lungs, Derek blinked, his eyelashes fluttering against Stiles' cheeks and his pretty, pretty eyes focusing on Stiles' face. Stiles drew in a shuddering breath – one, then two, and by the third, his heart rate was starting to return to the realm of normal and his eyes had stopped skittering around the room. Not that he could really see anything, anyhow.

"You okay?" Derek croaked.

Stiles nodded, still getting back his breath to speak. He reached up with shaky fingers and slowly unwound the wolfsbane from Derek's collar and threw it out through the bars. Derek's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open a very small amount – Stiles guessed it was the equivalent of any other person reeling in shock – as Derek's wounds finally healed.

"We should figure out how to escape," Stiles said quietly, still staring at Derek's eyes, the bridge of his nose, his expressive eyebrows. It was the receding panic attack that was making him fixate on Derek's – everything. That was the best explanation; better to focus on that than, well. "Because I think they're planning to kill us."

"I got that," Derek said dryly.

Oh, he was a dry wit now; now that Stiles was also targeted by Hunters. Or maybe now that Stiles had helped save Derek's life, too. Whatever, Stiles appreciated dry wit. Definitely better than thinking about dying, or about what Gerard had said about Stiles not being an Argent.

Gerard was wrong. Stiles was Chris Argent's son. Maybe they were … nearly opposites in everything, but they were always a united front. Especially after everything that had happened in the past couple years. They were a FAMILY and that meant something.

"Stop thinking about what that old man said," Derek said, and whoa, those were quite some mindreading skills. Stiles hadn't heard of any werewolves able to…

"Hey, wait. You could tell if he was lying. He was lying, right?"

"It doesn't matter if he believes it to be true," Derek grunted. "Can you get up now?"

"Not with you on top of me," Stiles said. Ouch, awkward. Derek just rolled off him and got gracefully to his feet, offering Stiles his hand. Only years of training with Chris and Victoria gave him a modicum of grace when getting to his feet, curse his stupid long limbs. Not that he was trying to impress Derek or anything.

Chris didn't have particularly long limbs. Neither did Gerard. But Stiles wasn't thinking of that.

Derek grabbed the bars and gave an experimental heave that made his muscles really stand out. Stiles bit his lip.

"I can pull these wide enough for us to slip through," Derek said. Which would mean _Stiles_ could escape, but Derek would still need Stiles to break the ring of mountain ash, and probably to pick the lock of his collar.

"I'm not going to leave you," Stiles said. A year ago he would have, and would've joined in the stoning, too. A few hours ago, Stiles would've at least left Derek. "I promise," he said, heartbeat steady.

***

"So if that creepy old guy's in charge, why isn't he in there with Stiles?" Allison wondered, frowning through her binoculars. They were what Scott figured was a safe distance away from the warehouse, huddled in the shadows of yet another abandoned warehouse, leftover from Beacon Hills' railroad days.

"The woman with the fake red hair is… different in some way," Lydia supplied. "Not like me, but not ordinary, either."

"Stiles isn't alone in there," Scott whispered. His eyes were already red. It didn't bode well for the men below. The well-armed men below, which also didn't bode well for _them_. "There's a werewolf in there, too. Derek." Scott made a face, and Allison suddenly didn't want to hear what he said next. "I can smell his blood from here."

Allison looked back through her binoculars. "Hunters," she said. "Like those guys and that old lady who was after Kira's family last year; you remember. They're armed the same way, but it looks like they're following this creepy old man instead of one of the women."

"Sexism exists even among reportedly matriarchal societies," Lydia said, flipping her hair. She'd hated the Hunters, even before they figured out she wasn't quite human.

"If they caught Derek, odds are they have wolfsbane," Allison continued. "Are we trying to rescue him, too, or protect Stiles from him? Scott?"

Scott chewed on his bottom lip. "Derek's a dick, but he wouldn't attack a human. It's really important to him not to get noticed."

"Good luck with that face," Lydia muttered.

"And he's a lot better at control," Scott talked over her. "So I don't think he'd just, you know, lash out. Besides, I only smell Derek's blood. No Stiles blood."

"Okay," Allison said, accepting his assessment, no questions asked. "We need a plan."

She had the gun her father bought her for her eighteenth birthday; Scott had his claws, teeth, and strength; and Lydia had her voice and brains. Against eight men and two women, and one of the women was… different.

"Stealth," she said finally. "We're hopelessly outnumbered if they have wolfsbane. Lydia, you'll have to keep an eye on the fake red. You don't feel anything, um, dire, do you?"

Lydia sighed. Scott laid his hand on Allison's shoulder, whether to give comfort or take comfort, she wasn't sure.

"I sense death all around here," Lydia said, her voice more hushed than normal. "I don't _think_ it's ours."

"Okay." Allison swallowed. "Lydia, you stay here and warn us if they react to anything down there. Follow Red if she goes anywhere. Scott, you and I are going through the back."

"Try not to get killed," Lydia told them.

"Don't worry," Scott said solemnly. "I'll protect her."

Allison and Lydia exchanged a look before Allison shrugged and pulled Lydia into a swift hug. "Take care," she whispered, touching Lydia lightly on the arm before grabbing Scott's hand and darting from the shadows.

It went to hell almost immediately. As Allison and Scott ran to the back door, it cracked open and Derek Hale poked his head out. An alarm blared loudly the second he stepped outside.

"Damn witch!" Allison heard Stiles' voice swear, and then he was pushing Derek and scrambling out behind him. His jaw dropped when he caught sight of Scott's wolfed-out face, but Allison wasn't going to give him time to freak out. The Hunters were already rounding the corner. In the distance, Lydia started screaming.

"Come on!" she yelled at Stiles and Derek.

The fastest two Hunters raised their guns, aiming for Stiles. Allison didn't hesitate, but she could only pick off one at a time. She aimed for the first Hunter's hand, and inwardly exalted when he dropped his weapon, clutching his hand to his chest in a cry of pain. The other Hunter got a shot off before Scott was on him, tackling him to the ground and wrestling his gun away from him.

Allison whirled on Stiles, dreading seeing him shot, but Derek had knocked him out of the way. They were already picking themselves up off the ground as she rushed forward to help.

" _Allison_?" Stiles gasped, but he was looking beyond her, at Scott.

"Stiles—" Scott started, his voice thick with fangs.

"Not now!" Allison commanded. "Everyone, run!"

The rest of the Hunters were nearly on top of them. Derek pushed Stiles behind him and turned to face them, wolfed-out. Allison grabbed Stiles by the hand, pulling him along, but he dug his heels in.

"Do you have another gun?" he asked.

 _Stiles_ knew how to fire a gun? She didn't have time to gape at him; Hunters were firing at them and Stiles nearly got his ear shot off. She tugged him behind a rusted-out truck and poked her head back up, spotting a Hunter about to shoot Scott, who'd joined Derek. She aimed quickly and fired; the Hunter collapsed to the ground, dropping his gun and clutching his arm.

They were evening the odds! She turned excitedly to Stiles, only to find him crawling out to get the dropped gun. He was thrown back by a force of wind, as Red and Creepy Old Man joined the fray. 

Shit. Lydia was no longer screaming. The noise Allison was hearing now was sirens. _Police_ sirens, which meant—

"Dad!" she whispered.

Dad's cruiser peeled around the corner and screeched to a halt, Dad leaping out with gun pulled, another man who looked vaguely familiar jumping out from the passenger side.

"Stiles!" the other man yelled, rushing forward. Mr. Argent, then; she'd seen him before at school.

"Beacon County Sheriff's Department!" Dad called out. "Everyone freeze!"

The words caught in his throat when he got a good look at Scott and Derek.

Oh, God.

Creepy Old Man began to chuckle. "Not sure who to pull your gun on now, are you, Sheriff?" He moved past the motionless Hunters and Red, who looked like she'd just stopped to watch the action, not because she'd been ordered to. "Allow me to introduce myself. Gerard Argent. I'm afraid you've interrupted a little family disagreement."

Allison bit back a snort of hysterical laughter. Family disagreement, was Gerard Argent out of his mind?

"I think it's gone a bit beyond that, Mr. Argent," Dad said. To everyone else, Allison was sure his voice sounded calm. But his eyes gave him away. They kept flicking to Scott. Allison wished he'd change back.

"Right now, you're wondering what the hell those creatures are," Gerard said, also picking up on it. His eyes gleamed nastily. "Werewolves. Monsters."

"Scott isn't a monster," Dad said automatically. "I've known him most of his life."

"Have you now?" Gerard said softly. "You see that boy?" He pointed at Stiles, still a few feet from his dad. "I've known him his entire life, and there is nothing about him that was as it seemed. My grandson, he called himself. He is _not_ my blood."

"Stiles is my son," Mr. Argent said angrily. Allison could see the ice in his blue eyes even from her hiding spot. He wasn't the kind of man she wanted for an enemy. Neither of the Argents were. This situation was going from bad to worse. "But you're no longer my father."

"Is that so?" Gerard asked. "Then this shouldn't hurt you at all."

He shouldn't have been able to do it. Gerard Argent was older and slower than his son, and Dad was right there with his badge and all the authority that entailed. None of that mattered. Red, Allison thought. It had to be Red who gave Gerard the strength and speed to grab Mr. Argent, disarm him, and pull him into a chokehold, a gun pressed to his temples.

"No!" Stiles screamed.

"Put down your gun!" Dad yelled.

Where was their backup? Surely it was just a couple minutes down the road. Allison shifted in her crouch. Stiles looked like he was about to do something foolish and brave, the Hunters still had weapons trained on Scott and Derek, and Dad had no support. Except for her.

Red took a step forward. "He's not going to put his gun down because, you see, he thinks Chris has been hiding the true Argent heir from him. When really, I just wanted to get every last Argent together so I could exterminate them." She cocked her head to the side. "Like roaches."

"Witch!" Gerard hissed.

Red laughed. "Don't act like you didn't expect it, old man. I know you have some trick up your sleeve to _deal with_ me. But you should know, that other Argent, the one you were looking for? Is here right now. I will have my revenge!"

"For what?" Dad asked, trying to get her to continue monologue-ing.

"For the slaughter of Peter Hale."

Derek growled low in his throat, but Red ignored him, raising her hands. Flames danced along the tips of her fingers. One of the Hunters took his focus off the werewolves and tried to shoot Red instead. The bullet disintegrated before reaching her.

"Noooooo!" Gerard howled. "You have to tell me! Where is my grandson? Where is he?!"

Allison had no intention of giving up her vantage point in her hiding place, but her feet were moving of their own accord. What the hell? Her _skin_ was glowing; she might as well be wearing neon bullseyes. She clung desperately to her gun as she stepped out into the empty space between warehouses.

Dad stared at her, jaw working. Both he and Scott tried to rush forward, to protect her with no thought to their own safety, most likely, but Red flung up a hand and they involuntarily froze mid-step.

"Let them go," Allison demanded, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Her?" Gerard whispered. "I have a granddaughter?"

"Congratulations," Red said sarcastically. "And now you're all about to die." Her eyes flicked between the werewolves, Dad and Stiles, and the Hunters. "Along with a little collateral damage."

Allison's heart was in her throat as Red brought her hands together and spread them apart, fire crackling between them – before the flames abruptly died. Red gasped. _Lydia_! Allison had completely forgotten about Lydia. Allison's gun was already raised. She shot Red in the arm, no barrier to stop the bullet. That should put her out of commission.

The Hunters didn't agree. Three of them shot her in the head, the simultaneous impact demolishing her skull and spilling her brains across the ground. Allison wanted to vomit.

"Stop!" Dad yelled, freed from stasis.

"Enough!" Gerard roared. The Hunters immediately stepped back. "Granddaughter," Gerard said. God, he was addressing _her_ , when he still had a gun pressed to Mr. Argent's head. Red had gotten the worst of that bargain, Allison thought, teetering close to hysteria. Gerard still had his unnatural strength and Red had lost her head. Bad deal. "Come join us. Sweetheart."

"I'm not your granddaughter, and _don't_ call me sweetheart," Allison bit out. "Do as my dad says and let Mr. Argent go."

"Your dad? _Your dad_?"

Allison wouldn't be surprised if Gerard started frothing at the mouth. Mr. Argent elbowed him sharply in the gut, but it just made Gerard tighten his stranglehold.

"That man joined in an unholy alliance with my own son to rid me of my blood and saddle me with his unwanted child," Gerard said.

"Hey!" Stiles protested, at the same time Dad called for everyone to lower their guns again. No one did.

"But you are here now, and you will come with me, girl, and take your place in our family!" Gerard continued, flecks of spit flying from the corners of his mouth.

"Put down your gun and stop threatening my daughter!" Dad said, advancing slowly. "Or I will shoot you."

Sirens were approaching again now, finally. Gerard and the Hunters heard them, too, and maybe it was that which spurred Gerard on.

"Leave my granddaughter!" he commanded. "Kill the rest. Kill them all!"

"No!" Allison screamed.

Everything happened so fast. Stiles picked a rock from the ground and threw it at the Hunter aiming for Derek, Derek roared and knocked that Hunter to the ground, Scott leapt between another Hunter and Dad and took the bullet that would have ended her father's life, the older lady Hunter grabbed one of the young male Hunters and escaped with him, and Gerard decided to cut his losses and end his son's life. 

Allison could see the second Mr. Argent's impending death shone out of Gerard's eyes. Cold gripped her very soul. Everyone else was distracted, Scott wasn't even moving, oh God, and there was only one way to stop Gerard. She would have to do it.

She took a deep breath and pulled the trigger.

***

"Chris?" Stiles asked. Chris didn't react, just stared at the poison leaving Scott's wound. Scott, who was a werewolf and needed special treatment for his wolfsbane bullet wound. Fate really didn't give a rat's ass that Stiles had turned his back on all things Hunter, did it? Stiles reached across his friend's body to Chris, kneeling on the other side and holding the remains of the bullet, and gave him a shake. "Dad?"

Chris flinched. "Your… friend… will want to go with the Sheriff and…"

Stiles had never seen Chris so completely lost, not even after Victoria. Damn Gerard and his fucking doubts.

"Her name's Allison," Stiles said. "And her dad's the sheriff. You're my dad; you remember that, right?"

"I'll always be your dad," Chris said. "But he allied himself with a witch. We should check, for your medical history."

"Seriously?" Stiles' eyebrows were going to climb straight up into his hairline. Now that the question was out there, Stiles was going to worry at it until he solved it; he was fundamentally incapable of letting it go. It was okay for _him_ to get freaked out, but Chris Argent? No, he wasn't allowed to doubt. "Gerard was a nutjob! How can you possibly give what he said any credence whatsoever?"

They all looked over at him then – Scott, his eyelashes fluttering open; Allison, her face frozen in a look of horror still; Derek, his expression unreadable; Lydia Martin, where the hell had she come from; and the Sheriff.

Stiles didn't look anything like him, either.

The Sheriff glanced over his shoulder, making sure his deputies had the remaining Hunters well in hand, and took a step closer.

"A lot of things just happened here that I'm having a hard time explaining." He swallowed. "My gut tells me Allison's my daughter. The past _eighteen years_ tell me that. The scientific evidence will support that."

"And if it doesn't?" Chris asked, crossing his arms. Some men crossed their arms to look tougher or portray an aura of badassness. Stiles knew Chris' tell. He was scared shitless and taking comfort from being contained.

"Then she will still be my daughter," the Sheriff said firmly. "Blood won't change that."

Stiles' heart pounded. It wouldn't change anything for Chris, either. He was pretty sure. Ninety-five percent. Maybe more like eighty.

"Stiles and I are a unit," Chris said, and Stiles breathed easier. The quasi-military speak meant Chris was dead-serious.

"Okay, well – this has been weird," Stiles said, and damn, they were really going to do this, weren't they? He stood up and offered a hand to his father. After a beat, he offered one to Scott, too. "Uh, anyone know of any twenty-four hour DNA testing drive-thrus?"

"My basement," Lydia said. Everyone turned to stare at her. "What?" She tossed her hair over her shoulder. "How did you think we've been doing this—" she waved her hand, indicating the warehouses, dead bodies, the universe for all Stiles could tell, "—and still keeping law enforcement safely out of it?"

"Lydia," Allison interrupted quietly.

"I'm not saying it was a bad call," Lydia said. "But now that the cat's out of the bag, maybe the Sheriff wants to go over a few things."

The Sheriff rubbed at his forehead. "Lydia's basement, an hour from now." He gestured to Allison and Scott. "You two can go wait in my cruiser. Hale," he frowned at Derek. "What are you doing back in Beacon Hills?"

Derek cleared his throat. "I came to town to see Scott."

"He protected me," Stiles cut in. "From the Hunters, in there." He nodded towards the warehouse. "Lots of blood; sticks and stones, and they still did the name-calling! Someone didn't get the memo. Um," Stiles faltered under the weight of their combined stares. "My point being you don't need to arrest him."

"I'll be going now," Derek said, and started walking away, which, whoa, that was not the plan!

"Hey, wait!" Stiles called out. Chris tried to hold him back, but after one look at his face, he let him go. Stiles didn't even want to know what his father had seen on his face. Something horribly embarrassing, no doubt. Well, so be it. Everything else in his life might have been turned on its head, but he could get an answer to _this_ , dammit! "Why did you protect me in the cage?"

Derek kept walking, rounding the side of the building.

"Derek!" Stiles shouted, running after him. "Come on! Please!"

Derek turned and crowded Stiles up against the warehouse. Stiles hit his head with a light thunk and blinked at Derek's angry face.

"You said you weren't a Hunter anymore," Derek stated.

"Yeah," Stiles said with a bitter little laugh. "Apparently I never was."

"Shut up. That's the best thing that could happen to you." Derek poked his finger in Stiles' chest. "They expected you to kill me or me to kill you. But I don't have to be a killer. And neither did you."

"I hate to bring this up, but I have killed before," Stiles said. He really needed to work on his brain to mouth filter.

"So have I," Derek said, looking away briefly before his eye locked back on Stiles. "That doesn't mean I have to _be_ a killer."

"Guess it doesn't," Stiles agreed. He reached out before his courage deserted him and cupped a hand around Derek's jaw, running a thumb over a perfect cheekbone. Derek went completely still before surging forward and slotting their mouths together in a sloppy kiss. Stiles went a little weak in the knees and clung to Derek's neck. He was tired from the ordeal and all the emotional stress; he definitely wasn't swooning in the arms of a werewolf.

Fuck it. He wrapped his legs around Derek's waist and let him take his weight.

Derek groaned and shoved against Stiles, grinding into him. Post-near-death-experience euphoria was a wonderful thing, Stiles thought, digging his hands into Derek's hair.

"Stiles," Chris said sharply.

"Fuck," Stiles slurred, his lips still pressed to Derek's neck. Derek set him gently on his feet, ignoring Chris to kiss Stiles one more time, his hands cupping Stiles' face like it – like _he_ \-- was something precious.

It was awfully soon for that depth of emotion. Maybe – probably, really, knowing Stiles' luck – Derek would regret it tomorrow, or even five minutes from now. Derek pressed his thumb to Stiles' lower lip, very nearly smiled, and left.

So maybe not.

Stiles watched him leave, hoping Chris hadn't noticed how turned on he was but knowing it was probably hopeless.

"Which do you want to talk about first?" Stiles asked absently, watching Derek's ass. "The dude thing or the werewolf thing?"

Chris sighed. "You did say you were looking for a Real Boyfriend."

Stiles blinked. "You're diffusing the situation with humor now? You're totally stealing my thunder!"

"Stiles." Chris scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I support you. I've always supported you." Stiles swallowed hard, nodding. He didn't need to be reminded of that. Chris had turned his back on his own heritage because it wasn't good for Stiles. He'd given up everything, and if Stiles wasn't even his son… "Whatever you're thinking right now, I want you to quit it. You're my son. I will always choose you. And I don't regret a damn thing."

Stiles hugged him, bending to hide his face in his father's neck, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears. No matter what happened, he would not allow himself to lose Chris.

***

"My first week on the job, my partner was shot in a routine house call," Dad said. The blue and red lights swirled outside the cruiser's window. Deputies Michaels and Saunders looked ghastly sick in the garish lighting, though it could have been the result of the brains spilled out across the asphalt in front of them. "Word of advice: step with extreme caution when dealing with families."

Allison slunk farther down in the passenger seat. Dad's voice was mild, calm – the assured voice of Sheriff Stilinski. She couldn't detect a trace of the shock and disbelief that'd been on his face not half an hour earlier.

"Now, I want you kids to stay here," Dad continued. "I need to wrap some things up. Then I'll drive us to Lydia's house, and we'll talk."

"Yes, sir," Scott said softly. His fangs had long since receded.

Dad looked like he was going to say something more, but changed his mind and left the cruiser, shutting the door firmly behind him. Allison closed her eyes, willing the tears to recede, as well. Stilinskis were strong and brave. They didn't cry, dammit.

"I'm sorry, Al," Scott said mournfully from the backseat.

Sorry. There was a lot of that going around. Allison clenched her hands together and focused on breathing.

"Shouldn't we move the Jeep?" Scott asked after twenty minutes of dead silence.

Allison shrugged. All of the Hunters had already been carted away and Dr. Sengupta was kneeling on Dad's folded-up jacket to do her initial exams on Red and Gerard.

"Dr. Sengupta looks like she's about to pop any minute," Scott said.

She was so pregnant her husband had driven her to the crime scene, actually, but Allison didn't feel like talking about the medical examiner's pregnancy. She didn't feel like talking about anything.

"I think Derek might stay in town for a while," Scott said.

"I don't fucking care!" Allison exploded. "Don't you get that, Scott? I just killed a man! Do you remember that Hunter last year, the one who tried to slit Lydia's throat but you slit his instead? Did you really want to sit around _talking_ afterwards? No! We're stuck here waiting for my dad who, guess what, might not even be my dad – and he saw me kill someone. He was _right there_. My entire life is a lie and I don't want to talk about logistics, or babies, or Derek Fucking Hale!"

Scott was blessedly silent for all of a minute.

"You're my best friend and I love you," he said quietly. "That part's not a lie."

Allison closed her eyes and massaged her temples. It was time to let it go. What the hell was she waiting for? Everyone in her life that she loved had almost died today. It was time to be brave.

"Yes it is. I don't want to be just your best friend."

"I thought you… you always accepted that I was…" Scott sounded gutted, and Allison quickly replayed her words through her head using her Scott filter.

"I meant that I want to be more than your best friend," she said quickly, and bit her lip. "I meant I don't just love you like a best friend."

Their eyes met in the rearview mirror. Scott looked utterly gobsmacked.

The driver's side door opened, and Allison jumped in her seat.

"Dr. Sengupta looks ready to pop, don't you think?" Dad asked.

"Sheriff, I'm in love with your daughter!" Scott blurted out. Allison's heart gave a strange lurch in her chest, like the Grinch listening to the Whos down in Whoville. Dad still had his mouth open and his eyes flicked rapidly between Allison and Scott.

"Please tell me that has nothing to do with babies," Dad said finally.

Allison started to laugh, tension and fear and anxiety bleeding out of her until she was sobbing. They were all laughing now, shoulders shaking and tears streaming out of their eyes. From afar, it'd be difficult to tell if the car was filled with hysterical laughter or three people seized with an uncontrollable grief. Allison supposed both were accurate.

Dad wiped at his eyes and turned the key in the ignition. "Well, Scott, I think you made an excellent choice. I gotta say I was expecting that confession for the past five years, though."

"And what about me?" Allison demanded.

Dad raised an eyebrow and glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "I know you," he said simply.

He did, Allison thought. She was lucky to have him – proud, supportive, loyal, clever. Dad reached across the seats and gave her knee a reassuring squeeze. Her eyes pricked _again_ , but she couldn't help it. It was the same touch he always gave her, unchanged in the face of werewolves, killer daughters, and DNA tests.

When they arrived at Lydia's house, Scott took her by the hand, lacing their fingers together, and her father offered his arm. Thus linked, they stepped forward as a unit.

*** TWO DAYS LATER ***

Stiles chose his best hoodie and his favorite un-hole-y jeans, and even debated putting on some aftershave (not that he'd shaved). Which was ridiculous; it wasn't like the Sheriff was going to care about what he smelled like. And it was just dinner – takeout, they were going to have burgers and fries in the Stilinski kitchen – but it was the first dinner he was ever going to have with his biological father.

Nothing had changed, on the surface. Stiles stayed with Chris and Allison stayed with the Sheriff. But Stiles caught himself wondering, just from time to time (all the time), if Chris would've been happier with a daughter. Would Victoria still be alive? Would Chris still hunt werewolves? And Stiles – how would he have been different as a Stilinski? Which just made him feel horribly guilty.

The questions gnawed at him, and he tried to distract himself – by masturbating to the memory of making out with Derek Hale, by cleaning every weapon in the armory three times, even by doing his homework and straightening his room – until Chris took him by the elbow and told him to call the Sheriff.

Stiles hadn't scared him off with a rambling voicemail, a good sign, but he still felt like he was going to throw up. Hence why he was sitting paralyzed in a rental car outside the Sheriff's house, the SUV still in the shop. Allison's Jeep was gone, sitting in Stiles' own driveway now. Maybe he could talk Chris into getting him a matching Jeep as part of an Argent-Stilinski bonding ritual…

Fingers tapped on his side window and Stiles almost bit through his tongue.

"Derek! You need to wear a bell! Not that you don't look exceedingly fine wearing what you're wearing. Dead cow, perfect choice. What the hell are you doing here?"

Derek gave him a flat look and opened the car door. Well that was just – not fair. This was Stiles' car. Rented car. His father's rented car.

"Get out, Stiles, and go talk to him. He doesn't bite."

"Have we determined this? Where's your scientific proof?"

Stiles nearly bit his tongue again. It was the scientific proof that brought him here in the first place, nice job, brain-to-mouth filter. Derek ignored him in favor of leaning into the car and unbuckling Stiles' seatbelt. That was up there in the Top Five Most Erotic Moments of his life, and Stiles really wished he'd been able to appreciate it more.

"Derek? What _are_ you doing here?" Stiles asked again, softer this time.

Derek paused, his upper body still in the car. "He asked for my help," he said. He sounded almost proud. It was a good sound on him. "Reviewing old unsolved case files, seeing what really happened."

"That sounds like fun," Stiles said automatically. "I mean, maybe 'fun' isn't—"

"I get it. It's… good to do."

"Yeah."

They stared at each other for a long moment. Stiles was acutely aware of a bead of sweat making its way down the back of his neck and the musky scent of Derek's cologne. Maybe Stiles should have gone for the aftershave anyhow.

His thought process was completely derailed by the feel of Derek's lips against his own. Thank God. Stiles threw himself wholeheartedly into returning the kiss – mouth open and hands reaching for any part of Derek he could grab – his neck, his shoulders, his hair. Derek kissed him like he was hungry for it, Stiles could feel it to the tips of his toes. It was pretty damn intoxicating. Derek should be arrested for having a mouth like that. Arrested…

"Shit," Stiles gasped, pulling away. "My dad is right inside."

That sounded weird, only because it didn't sound weird.

"You should go talk to him," Derek murmured, pressing a sloppy kiss to Stiles' neck.

"Uh huh," Stiles agreed. Man, his brains were oozing out his ear. They were in a weird purple-gray puddle on the driveway. His sheriff-dad would have to put up caution tape.

Derek kissed him one more time before pulling away.

"I'm gonna go inside now," Stiles said, dazed. He blinked rapidly, trying to get his head back in the game. "If you gave me a hickey, my two dads will chase you down."

"Later," Derek said. Wow, he really looked like a wolf when he smiled.

"You're not leaving?" Stiles asked, shooting for casual.

Derek shook his head. "Go see your dad now, Stiles."

Right. Huge thing he'd been incredibly nervous about. Well look at that, his hands weren't shaking anymore. Derek Hale: cure for anxiety, who'd've thunk it?

The Sheriff opened the door just as Stiles raised a finger to push the doorbell.

"It doesn't work," he said, inclining his head in its direction while keeping his eyes fixed on Stiles' face. "And you don't need permission to come here." He opened the door wider, gesturing Stiles in. "I have dinner toasting in the kitchen; follow me."

Stiles stared at the pictures dotting the walls as they walked to the kitchen: Allison as a baby, in the arms of a smiling woman; Allison on the Sheriff's shoulders when she was a toddler; Allison with the smiling woman at Disneyland; pre-teen Allison with pre-teen Scott, trying to look tough on their kid-sized dirt bikes. His hands were shaking again by the time they got to the kitchen, but not with anxiety. His mom, he'd just seen his birth mom, and _he looked like her_.

"Here, sit down, I got a variety of beverages," the Sheriff said. 

It was good to know Stiles wasn't the only one who was nervous. He eyed his choices. Victoria had forbade soda when he was a kid. Stiles reached for a Dr. Pepper and wondered if it'd be too crass to bring up the Sheriff's dead wife.

"Um," Stiles started.

"You can call me Dad if you want," the Sheriff said quickly. "Or Sheriff, or Mr. Stilinski. I noticed you called your dad by his name. You can call me—"

"Dad is good," Stiles said, growing calmer in the face of the Sheriff's clear case of nerves. That also answered the question about the wife. He'd ask Allison about his mom. "It was Victoria's idea to use first names, once I started training. It works for Chris and me."

"Curly fries?" the Sheriff – Mr. Stilinski – _Dad_ offered, clearly relieved to get the what-do-you-call-me hurdle over with. He pulled a cookie sheet out of the oven with two burgers and fries from the diner on Willow Street, neatly wrapped up to stay warm.

"They're my favorite," Stiles admitted. The empty chair scraped loudly against the tiles when Stiles pushed it out with his foot in invitation. The smile Dad gave him at that – wry and private, more in the twinkle of his eyes than the quirk of his lips – was enough to cause Stiles to fumble the fries. "So," Stiles said, recovering. "What else do we have in common?"

"Clearly wit and dashing good looks," Dad said dryly. It looked like someone was shaking off his nerves. Stiles snorted, spraying a bit of potato. "I was actually wondering how you came by your name," Dad continued. "Stiles and Stilinski, you've got to admit. Interesting coincidence there."

"Yeah. Hey, do I have any aunts and uncles, cousins I should know about?" Stiles asked. Dad blinked at the non sequitor. "That's how I got my name," Stiles hurried to add.

Dad cleared his throat. "You have a grandmother. On your mom's side. She was an only child in a long line of only children. I have a younger sister, Beth, in Omaha. She's a musician, indie-folk scene there. No kids. I have a couple of cousins with big families. We can… I'd really like for you to meet them."

"Cool." Stiles wiped his greasy fingers on his jeans and then clasped them together. "Chris had a younger sister, too. My Aunt Kate. You… may have met her." That would be part of the files Dad needed to go over again, now that he knew about werewolves. "Uh, so when I was a kid, I had a pretty bad lisp. And Kate always teased me, getting me to try to say difficult words. I used to think it was funny, cause she always laughed. But then she started to get really mad at me, and this one time, she was visiting and we were watching some reality fashion competition. And she kept poking me to say things like 'silk' and 'thread.' 'Styles.' My d—Chris. He got pissed at her and made her leave. Said I didn't need to say 'styles' if I didn't want to. But my mom, um, Victoria. She sent me to, like, six different speech therapists. And the next time Kate visited, I could say 'styles.'"

Dad was watching him with this look, probably rewinding history and playing back what would have happened if Stiles had grown up Stilinski. They were going to look at each other that way a lot, Stiles suspected.

"Kate was thrilled and started calling me 'Styles.'" Stiles shrugged. "It stuck. Things she liked tended to happen." He leaned over and grabbed one of Dad's fries. "So I purposely misspelled it. Such a rebel." 

Dad was quiet for a moment. Maybe he was contemplating what he would've done to Kate if he'd known her. It was possible.

They talked about the future after that – the schools Stiles had applied to, what he liked to do, what he thought about things like five year plans. They tried one-upping each other with bits of useless trivia (Stiles was pretty sure he won). They even talked about Derek Hale, which was totally squirm-inducing, but at least Stiles knew one of his dads kind of, sort of liked the guy he was planning on making out with a whole hell of a lot.

Four hours after Stiles freaked out in the driveway, he was back there, texting Allison the "all-clear."

"Thanks for dinner, Dad," Stiles said, shifting from foot to foot. Dad looked a little stiff leaning against Stiles' car. "Goodbyes are awkward. Don't you feel awkward?"

Dad laughed then, the tension draining from his shoulders. "Yeah. But we'll do this again next week, so it's not really a goodbye then."

"See now, I define goodbye as wishing someone well for even a temporary absence. Curious to hear your definition. Are goodbyes reserved for crossing oceans? What about really big lakes?"

Dad pulled him into a bear hug and wow, he was great at giving hugs.

"I'll see you later, son," he whispered.

"Later, Pops," Stiles said back, and held on tight.

***

The Argents lived almost exactly four miles away from the Stilinski house, but to Allison, it felt like four hundred. Chris Argent greeted her at the door, dressed in jeans, a button-down, and a Batman apron.

"I made macaroni and cheese," he said. "Stiles said he's seen you eating it in the school cafeteria."

"Yeah, we should buy stock in Easy Mac…" Her voice trailed off as she followed him into the kitchen. Clearly, Argent Mac & Cheese was in no way related to Kraft Mac & Cheese. There was a grater in the sink, and a cutting board, not to mention the smells! Wow. Maybe she'd inherited some hitherto unknown natural cooking ability.

"I let Stiles start having a glass of wine with dinner when he turned eighteen," Chris said, taking off his apron. "Would your dad…?"

"Oh, just water is good. I actually don't really like alcohol that much."

Discovered last summer at a get together too small to be termed a party at Lydia's house. Scott held her hair back for her the entire time she was throwing up. Something of that must have shown on her face, because Chris chuckled and poured them each a glass of water. He held her seat for her at the dining room table and served her a small salad before sitting down on the other side of the table.

It felt weird.

"You don't have to try hard with me," Allison said bluntly. Chris paused, a forkful of salad raised partway to his mouth. "I mean, I've already accepted that you're my birth dad. I already want to get to know you. You don't have to wine and dine me."

"That's… good to hear." He placed his fork down, food untouched. "But are you always this trusting?"

"Trusting? Here are the things I know about you." Allison held up her hand and raised a finger. "You used to hunt werewolves. It was how you were raised and was your entire life." She raised a second finger. "You gave it all up for your son." Third. "When Stiles was kidnapped, you figured it out first and convinced the Sheriff to drive you to the warehouse on a hunch." Fourth. "I don't know what you told my dad to get him to do that with a civilian and no backup, but what it tells me is anyone would be lucky to have you as a father." Fifth. "I killed your father and you still invited me to dinner. My werewolf boyfriend—" She got a thrill each time she referred to Scott as her boyfriend. "—assures me that you don't carry a grudge for that." She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know if trusting is the word I would choose. Maybe faith."

Chris rubbed at his jaw, his eyes assessing her for a long moment.

"I never thanked you for doing that," he said abruptly. "For saving my life."

Allison looked down at her salad. "Even though he was your family?"

"He _was_ trying to kill me at the time," Chris said dryly. He sat forward in his chair and gave her a serious look. "Someday, you, me, and Stiles will sit down and have a talk about the crimes Gerard Argent committed against this family. Until then, Allison, please know that you are never less than a hero in my book. There is nothing to forgive."

The salad greens started to run together, or maybe those were the tears in her eyes.

Dinner was fantastic; her mother used to make macaroni and cheese from scratch, with big chunks of SPAM floating in watery cheese. Chris' dish, though, was a whole different class – the cheese was thick and creamy, the pasta was tender, the bacon was recognizable, and the buttery cracker crust was perfectly toasted. Dessert was even more incredible, if that could be believed. Tiramisu.

Her dad would've loved it. Both of them.

She was going to call Chris by his name, she decided, like Stiles did, but even after just one dinner, she could see him as a father figure. Her father figure. They talked about the things they had in common: werewolves and weapons, mainly; Chris even said he could teach her how to use a bow and arrow, how amazing was that! Chris had _stories_ , thrilling, dangerous tales, and for each one he told, he listened attentively to one of hers. He treated her like an equal, and it was exhilarating.

They talked until Allison got a text from Stiles.

Chris walked her to the Jeep and gave her a kind of awkward hug.

"Your mother would be so proud of you," he said, his voice painfully soft.

"Thank you," Allison whispered back. She hadn't mentioned Victoria, or any other members of the Argent family. Not this first time, when she wanted to get to know _Chris_. That didn't stop the spark of joy in her chest at thinking her birth mother would be happy to meet her, despite the wonderful years she'd spent with Claudia Stilinski as a mother.

Dad and Scott were waiting up for her when she got home, ESPN on in the background. She snuggled down between them on the couch.

"What was it like?" Scott asked in a hushed voice.

"Well," Allison said, very much aware of her dad's tense muscles on the other side of her. "We're definitely getting the Argent men to cook Thanksgiving dinner for us this year."

Dad laughed, and threw his arm around her shoulders. They'd be okay.

***

"This one's of Mom when she was our age," Allison said.

Stiles reached for the picture eagerly, mouth splitting wide in a laugh.

"Holy shit, that hair! Eighties, man."

God, he wanted to reach right through the photograph and touch her, talk to her, find out if she'd like him. They looked so much alike.

"Just wait until we get to the wedding pics," Allison said, tapping the photo album.

Stiles was torn between skipping ahead to those or savoring each picture the first time. Allison sipped her milkshake and looked down at the pictures.

"Mom was a great storyteller," she said softly. "She used to tell me about the day we were born a lot. I haven't, I haven't thought of those stories since she died. It was too… you know…"

She knew, now, the bare bones of what happened to Victoria and the circumstances surrounding her death. Telling her was one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do, but Allison surprised him, processing it quietly as the diner around them alternately pulsed with noise and faded to a soft susurration.

"I always wondered if she'd have been happier with a daughter," Stiles said quietly. "If she'd have fought harder."

"No," Allison said, reaching across the table and squeezing his hand. "You've never had Lydia lecture you about the theory of probability, or whatever she called it. We're not playing 'what if,' Stiles. There are way too many factors, for one thing, and…"

Stiles could fill the rest in for himself – and there were too many ways this went sour for both of them. Much better to look at photos and reminisce about the good times, instead. Allison had propped up a picture of Victoria in one of her power suits against the salt shaker. Victoria looked tough as nails, but Stiles remembered how she used to rub his back for hours when he had nightmares as a little kid. He told Allison that, too. She smiled at the picture now before reaching across the table and poking Stiles in the arm.

"Ouch!" he exclaimed.

"Just checking you're real," she said cheerfully. "I used to have an imaginary friend, but I'm pretty sure that was you."

"Oh, trust me, I am a Real Boy now," Stiles said.

"You two are so cute together," their waitress cooed, coming over with pie.

Stiles glanced up, startled, and Allison flashed her dimples at the woman.

"Thanks, but we're related," she said. "And we both have boyfriends."

Stiles flushed. "I don't know if Derek qualifies as my boyfriend."

Their waitress beat a hasty retreat.

"You have a hickey," Allison pointed out.

Boy did he ever. It was just a few hours old, too, the result of an hour spent making out with Derek while Chris was checking out a client's security system. Kissing and groping had escalated to biting and grinding, culminating in clothes being shoved down or pushed up before Derek jacked them both off. Derek hadn't left after that, either, not until Stiles said he had to get ready for his bonding dinner with Allison.

So maybe Derek was his boyfriend. He was at least reasonably sure Derek would be staying in town for a while.

"Has Scott said anything to you about La Loba?" Stiles asked.

Allison blinked. "Um, no? Is it," she shifted uncomfortably, "something related to hickeys from werewolves?"

"What? No!" Stiles laughed. "That's just – I was thinking about making out with Derek, and Derek staying in town, which led to why he's in town. So, no, La Loba is a myth, but Derek is here chasing it down. He said he wanted Scott to help him with it."

"La Loba?" Allison asked, her forehead furrowing.

"Yeah. I have some ideas on why."

"I can look into it," Allison said, pulling her pie towards her.

"You're the researcher?" Stiles asked.

"And strategy. Lydia's science and technology. Scott's the leader and heart, and if we have to, you know, talk to anyone. People will tell him stuff they'd never tell me or Lydia." She looked up at him. "You can take research, if you want." She said it casually, but it was anything but casual. It was pack, even if Stiles had never heard the three of them refer to themselves as such before. "I prefer strategy and weapons."

"Strategy and weapons, huh?" Stiles asked, finally digging into his own pie and spraying a bit of flaky crust. "Are you a gamer?"

Wow, her 'I'm going to try to hustle you' smile was the same as Chris'. That was… kind of cool, actually.

"I play from time to time," Allison said, shrugging nonchalantly. Yeah, right.

"Okay, Stilinski: Chris and I challenge you and Dad to a First Person Shooter marathon. Game to be determined by the fathers."

Allison smiled. "Bring it on, Argent."

Stiles ate a much too big piece of pie, savoring the strange feeling of contentment in the pit of his stomach. For the first time in a really long time, he felt like he belonged.

**Author's Note:**

> I keep forgetting to add my tumblr note! I have a tumblr. I'm way more active on it now than last year. [Come on over.](http://bluefjords.tumblr.com/) Let's be buddies.


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